The scars of the fathers
by mj2007
Summary: Reid-Hotch friendship.  Spencer discovers his boss has made a choice that he believes the man will come to regret forever.  Can he make him change his mind?
1. Chapter 1

Author's note: This story was inspired by how Jack seemed to completely disappear from Hotch's life in the second half of last season. This is my explanation and resolution.

Hotch/Reid friendship, not slash.

Obviously, I don't own any of the characters...wish I did!

Spencer Reid had finished his work for the day. Nothing surprising there. It was a slow period at the BAU and the processing of paperwork was like cotton candy for him...seemingly voluminous but in reality without real substance to consume. Normally it would have been a day he could cut out early, maybe grab a chess game in the local park, research a paper he would be presenting, or, on rare occasion, head out for a beer (in his case brandy) with Morgan or his other team-mates. After all, it was Friday.

But Spencer Reid had an agenda this evening, a resolution that he was firm on making, no matter the risk. And he was wise enough to know there was risk. Tonight, he was preparing to confront Aaron Hotchner on a matter that was technically none of his business, but which he couldn't let alone. Depending on how obtuse (or ass-like) Hotch was opting to be, he could put his very job on the line. But Reid was no coward...and he wasn't weak. And when the fight was one he could believe in, he was prepared to risk everything in battle.

So when he'd heard Prentiss moaning about her stack of files still to be dealt with, preventing her from taking off early for a weekend at Virginia Beach with some girlfriends, he'd offered to take them off her hands. She couldn't believe her good luck; Morgan looked at him like some kind of a martyr; and Reid had quietly basked in the knowledge that he would purposely be the last man in the office with his boss. Sadly, since Haley's death, one could pretty much be assured that Hotch would never leave before them.

It was at precisely 6:32 that JJ took off, following Morgan and Rossi out the door. And as soon as he heard the distant elevator chime that indicated that they were truly gone, Reid rose and walked with some purpose. to his boss's office. He knocked just once, and then stuck his head in the doorway.

Hotch barely glanced up; his own stack of paperwork was before him. "You should head home, Reid. Any paperwork you have left can keep until Monday."

"And you can't say the same?" Reid asked, eyebrows raised.

Hotch shot him a cold, granite glare. "Did you need something? Because I'm not looking for advice on how to handle my paperwork."

Reid came all the way in the office and shut the door behind him. That made Hotch lean back in his chair, his forehead furrowed at the intrusion. His elbows came to rest on the arms of his chair, his fingers forming a tent in front of his mouth, as if to hold back his words.

"I've heard a rumor." Reid started, his voice not faltering, though the rumor he'd heard had made him livid. "Is it true that you're ceding full custody of Jack to Haley's sister?" He plunged forward.

For the briefest second, Hotch's face flinched, but it was so quick a reaction that Reid might have imagined it. His boss's eyes bored in to him. "I fail to see how this is any of your concern." He said, his voice terse.

Reid, to his surprise, matched the glare with one of his own. "I have known you for nearly eight years, Hotch. In all that time I've had nothing but the highest regard for you. I have considered you for some time as one of the best men I know. I've also considered you a friend. And as a _friend_, I cannot sit back and watch you do this."

Hotch didn't move. The seconds seem to tick away, with only the faintest twitch of jaw to indicate the war he was no doubt having; a war within himself on how to answer best. Or perhaps it was his fight to stay calm and not kill the person standing before him. Reid had no idea which way this was to go.

"You are not a friend. You are a subordinate." The words were cold and cruel; Reid knew they were meant to be. He also didn't put a huge amount of stock in Hotch meaning them; rather believing his boss was hoping by any means to push him away from a painful conversation. "And you are well out of line, Agent Reid. Now I would appreciate it if you leave, and we forget this ever happened, because if you stay, you will be putting your job in jeopardy."

Reid might believe Hotch's words were spoken in anger, but that didn't negate the possibility of him actually acting in his anger. But this was more important than his job.

"Then not as your friend. As Jack's friend. Advocate. Whatever. I speak as someone who knows what it is to watch your father abandon you and not have the slightest clue why. Do _not_ do this to your son. You may think you're acting in his best interest. _You're not_. What is in Jack's best interest is holding on to the one parent he has left. Not having that person walk out on you." Reid's voice betrayed, just slightly, the anger that he was feeling.

Hotch rose abruptly, coming around the desk and standing just inches in front of Reid. Reid was slightly taller than Hotch; but his boss outweighed him by a good fifty pounds. Still, he would not cower.

"Agent Reid, I am giving you one last chance to walk out of this office while you still can." Hotch whispered, his voice controlled with difficulty.

Reid would not let it go. "If you do this, Jack will spend the rest of his life wondering why he wasn't good enough for you. If you do this, then every choice he makes will be made wondering how you would react to it. He might bend over backwards, trying to achieve your imaginary approval. He might go the other way, and make every choice he makes because he'd think it wasn't what you wanted. No matter how much Jessica loves him, he will go to sleep every night knowing his own father doesn't want him, and every relationship he ever has will be colored by that fact. He won't trust people. He will carry a hurt that you cannot even imagine..."

The fist came out of nowhere, Hotch's swift punch knocking Spencer in to the door. Reid put his hand up to his eye and his other arm defensively in front of his midsection, a flashback to too many bullies from his childhood. But though he felt his eye swelling, though he was well aware that Hotch was seconds from completely pummeling him, he stood his ground. And forced himself to keep his one good eye on his now clearly enraged boss.

"Do not tell me what I can imagine." Hotch hissed, suddenly grabbing the front of Spencer's shirt. "I can imagine too many things too well. Your memory might be eidetic, but mine isn't exactly flawed. You stand in front of me and project your own pathetic life on my son. Maybe your father DID leave because he saw what you would become...a socially inept outcast, a drug addict, a pathetic failure of a man in any way but PHD's. Jack isn't you. And I know what is best for him...and it isn't me."

Reid had flinched inwardly at Hotch's cruel words. But he was a profiler; a damned good one, and knew with his head that Hotch was purposely trying to deflect Reid's comments to him by turning the conversation in a different direction. Knowing that didn't prevent the words from hurting; they were words he too often said to himself. But he didn't matter. In some ways, Reid pretty much considered himself a done deal; what damage was done to him was permanent now. Jack still had a chance.

"You...are...wrong." Reid spoke with quiet conviction, lowering his hand from his swelling eye. "And I don't care if you fire me...I don't care if you beat me unconscious, I will not leave here until I make crystal clear the mistake you are making. I can't stop you from doing this. But I could not live with myself if I just sat back and watched you do it."

Ten seconds passed, Hotch still with a death grip on Reid's shirt, his eyes still not blinking. Then his lips twisted in to a cruel smile. "Fine, Reid. You've made your point. And you're fired. I'm sure that I can put together a compelling enough case for the action to Strauss from your vast amounts of past transgressions."

Silence. Hotch let him go and walked back towards his desk.

Reid slowly took off his gun, and his badge. He laid both down on the desk in front of his boss...his former boss. He kept control of his voice. "I'd suggest sticking with the drug addiction. It's the most unassailable. You can just say that you discovered I'd been attending meetings for the past three years. It's not like I told you about it. It's not like we'd ever had a conversation about it." A slight bit of bitterness did creep in to his voice then. "It's not like you helped me." He gave himself a shake, remembering his point. "And none of that matters. Honestly, Hotch, if you are capable of abandoning your son, then you are not the man I thought you were. And I would rather not work for the man you are."

With those final words, Spencer Reid turned and walked out in to the bullpen. He picked up his messenger bag, took one final look around the one place he'd been truly happy his entire life, and then walked out the door.

Hours later, he found himself sitting in his back yard. His house was a tiny two bedroom bungalow that he rented; he'd done so primarily for the postage stamp back yard it included. The yard was completely walled in on all three sides, affording him total privacy; it held a grill and a small patio set, along with a strip used for some light gardening. It was his oasis of sorts, where he went to clear his head from the worst of what he saw on the job.

Tonight he sat with a brandy in his hand and a pack of ice on his eye, staring at the fire he'd started in the grill, grate off, wondering what his next step was. Would Hotch use his past drug abuse as a cause? While he'd meant to sound blasé about encouraging it, he realized now it had been a mistake. Applying for a teaching position (his best option) became much more problematic as a past drug abuser.

And the next question was, where? Did he stay in the area? True, all of his friends were here...the only other logical option was Las Vegas, if he wanted to be closer to his mother. He'd grown up in Vegas, though, and for the most part the memories were bad. Hurtful. On the other hand, 'all of his friends' had been co-workers. Well, maybe not all...but most of them. The ones he was closest to. But how much of a friend was Morgan, really? Or Emily? Garcia? He'd privately always been afraid that they were bound to him by the job, not because of who he was. On the good days, he realized he was being stupid. Today was not a good day. JJ, of course, had bound him to her by making him Henry's god-father, but Henry was still a toddler and JJ was more than busy.

Besides, even if his team-mates had the best of intentions in staying close to him, they would be gone more often than not. Cases took them far and wide, for weeks at a time; squeezing in a lunch or a few beers with them would be a challenge in the best of circumstances.

Maybe he should start somewhere brand new? Only...he didn't have a whole lot of confidence in making new friends if he did that. Hotch's personal assessment, however cruel, pretty much mirrored exactly how he felt about himself. He trusted his brain with a profile, with remembering exact quotations from specific folios, with the lyrics to twelfth century folk songs and complex logarithms, but not with anything even remotely social. For better or worse, that was the legacy of his childhood; he'd been different his entire life and his father walking out and leaving a ten year old in charge of a mother who probably should have been declared incompetent had warped him.

It was those feelings, however complex they were, that had made him fight so hard for Jack tonight. Fat lot of good it had done. But someday, when Jack was confronting Aaron Hotchner about a myriad of baggage and hurt, he wanted Hotch to remember that someone, at least, had tried to stop it. Even if Jack would never know.

He just wished it had worked. Jack deserved a better than the fate Spencer Reid had been dealt. Hell, Jack's hand might even be worse; a dead mother was worse than one with Schizophrenia. He never doubted his mother loved him, however many bad spells she had; there were still times, even now, where she made sure he knew just how much. Jessica loved Jack, but an Aunt wasn't a mother.

Reid sighed one more time, put down the ice pack, and once again began to wonder what was next.

"It doesn't look as bad as I was afraid it would." A voice spoke from the area by the garden gate that led towards the driveway.

Reid looked over. Hotch was standing there, hesitating.

With the faintest spark of hope in his chest, Reid replied, "Turns out you don't punch any harder than you kick."

Hotch took that bit of familiarity, a peculiarly good memory between them, as an invitation to come forward. He did so, looking uncharacteristically awkward. "I could smell the fire from the front door; when you didn't answer, I figured I'd come around to the side." Coming up to the table, Hotch returned Reid's badge and his gun, placing both down almost reverently next to his brandy glass. Reid met Hotch's eye with a question, and Hotch sat down in the chair opposite him.

"Reid...what I said to you was inexcusable." He began, looking anywhere but at the younger man's eyes.

"What you said to me was true." Reid corrected. "Why do you think I am fighting so hard for your son?"

Haunted eyes now did look him over. "Reid...I have to let Jack go." He pleaded. "I don't want to, but I can't risk...can't risk..." Hotch cringed and looked away once more. "Please believe that I have to do this."

"Hotch..." Reid interupted. "Just tell me _why_. Are you afraid of another Foyet, of some unsub targeting your son?" Spencer guessed.

Hotch almost laughed, and then suppressed a sob, two of the least expected sounds Spencer could have imagined. "God, no. That I can fight. That I can prepare for. Protect Jack from outsiders? I will fight to the death to keep him safe. No unsub will ever get near him again. But Reid...how do I protect him from myself?" Hotch wiped his eyes.

Reid reached forward, grasping his boss's arm. "What happened, Hotch?" He asked, in as gentle a voice as he could.

Funny...Hotch was the better profiler, not that Spencer was bad. But where Reid was better was at talking an unsub down, at getting one to lower his defenses, at opening them up and getting the pain to pour out. Empathy. It had gotten Reid in to trouble on more than one occasion, in fact; he remembered Hotch chewing his ass out over it once. But now it was the best weapon he had.

"Reid...I...I..." Hotch cringed, looking away. "I hit him." He whispered.

Ah.

Now he understood.

"Tell me exactly what happened." Reid repeated, his voice still gentle.

"Last weekend, we'd just returned from Hartford...that case...five children left without parents because of that unsub. And Jack was...whining. I was tired. He wanted my attention. I just wanted to sleep for a year. He was complaining about everything...nothing I did was right. He refused to eat his sandwich; I told him he wasn't leaving the table until it was gone. And he threw it at me. And I...lost it. I grabbed his arm, picked him up off the chair, and swatted him three or four times. He screamed...he was terrified...I'd never struck him before. And he ran up to his room...I could hear him sobbing...and I just sat there..." Hotch had tears running down his face now. "I just sat there and listened to him cry himself to sleep...and I...I called Jessica and told her she needed to take him, that I couldn't be around him anymore...I can't risk that, can't risk.."

"Can't risk becoming your father." Reid answered for him, seeing that Hotch had lost all ability to form words.

They all knew...without ever having spoken about it...that Hotch's father had been an abusive control freak. How could they not know? Funny thing about pofilers. Two things were true, as far as Reid could see: nobody who was completely whole would be able to become one. And nobody who became one would have a shot in hell at keeping their demons from other profilers, however well hidden they were to the world at large.

Hotch wiped at his eyes with his arm, and looked desperately at Spencer. "You understand, then, why I have to do this?"

Reid chose his words carefully. "I understand why you feel the need to do this, Hotch. But I still don't think you're right." He held up a hand to forestall Hotch's further comment. "Hear me out on this one, please?"

Hotch sighed, and nodded for him to continue.

"What you just told me...Haley's been dead for little more than six months. Jack was cranky. He's five. It's going to happen. You were exhausted. He wanted your attention, and wasn't above trying to get it in any way he could, even in a negative way. You lost your temper. I know you didn't want to, but you did it, and it can't be gotten back. Now, do you think you left bruises?"

Hotch looked horrified. "God, no..."

"I wouldn't have thought so either, from how you described it. So I would imagine that Jack was more frightened than hurt. So...you're a five year old kid, your mother is dead...and your father just did something completely out of character. You freak out and run to your room." Reid paused. "Did your father leave bruises?"

"I...what?" Hotch blanched slightly.

"I know what kind of man I think your father was...but it's not like it's something you've ever talked about. What I've always _thought_ was that he was viciously violent, and cruel...I've thought that because of some cases we've been on with unsubs, and because of how I've watched you interact with Jack...because of the look you'd get on your face when we were dealing with children who'd been abused, even if they went on to become unsubs. Am I right?" When Hotch just stared at him, Reid ran his hands through his hair in frustration. "Talk to me, Hotch. You know it won't go any farther."

Hotch nodded, feeling pulled in to the past. "The last time was the worst..."

_The memory assailed him._

_He had been out at basketball practice, and he felt that familiar grab in his stomach as he approached his silent, perfect house. The perfect house with the perfect white picket fence that hid a score of horrors. His brother Sean was just three years old, twelve years younger than he was, and as Aaron had walked through the door, he heard Sean crying. Swallowing hard, he'd run in to his father's study._

_The old man was hitting Sean, repeatedly, with a wooden ruler. Hotch had looked around, and saw a spilled cup of juice…he did not yet know what profiling was, but within seconds he figured what had happened…Sean had toddled in to the office to see what "Daddy" was doing, had spilled his drink, and his father was now deranged with anger at a simple accident._

"_Dad…Dad…" Aaron called. "Dad, let Sean go…he's too little…" Aaron dropped his gym bag and came forward, running his hands frantically through hair. "Please…I'll clean it up!"_

"_He has to LEARN…" His red-faced father grumbled, still swinging the ruler. "Not to make messes." Sean wailed; seeing his brother, he sobbed out, "Aaaaaaarrrrrrrroonn!"_

_Aaron made the decision in seconds. He reached over to the wall, grabbing his father's prized, framed photo taken shaking hands with the mayor at a local golf tournament. And he screamed. "DAD!"_

_Catching his father's eye, Aaron gave him a falsely brave glare, and the most arrogant smirk he could manage. And he lifted the frame high over his head, then swung it forward, down on the desk, shattering glass and destroying everything._

_Mission accomplished._

_His father roared in anger and let Sean go…Sean smartly ran like hell out of the study, for the safety of __his room._

_There was no safety for Aaron. The man grabbed him by the shirt and threw him down, on top of the shards of glass. Instinctively he tried to curl in to fetal position as the kicks started it, before the man began to slash at him with his belt. Aaron didn't scream…there was no point. He did his best to hold quiet the sobs that eventually broke from him…it hurt…EVERYTHING hurt…the glass digging in to him, the belt slashing through his tee-shirt and shorts, the kicks that threatened to cave in his ribs whenever his old man's arm needed a rest. But Sean was safe, and that was all that mattered. Sean was safe._

A grimace of pain brought Hotch back to the present, back to the cozy back yard and his persistent agent who would not let him run from his problems. Not this time. "Did my father leave bruises? No, not at all. Four broken ribs, three cracked and fifteen lacerations from broken glass, and about seventy or so welts, twenty of which had broken skin…that doesn't quite qualify as 'bruises'." He looked away, a sour feeling in his gut. "You've underestimated him."

Reid gave an understanding nod. The silence ticked away, as his young agent allowed him to collect himself.

Finally, he gave half a shrug. "Even before that time, in the course of his abuse, I'd had two broken arms, broken collarbone...and too many bruises to count. Then he got cancer...and I had to act sorry about it." Hotch's face contorted in pain. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to pretend to mourn a man you'd come to hate?"

"No." Reid answered truthfully. "My father isn't dead yet."

He drummed his fingers quietly, watching his boss, before proceeding. "Have you ever discussed this with your brother, Hotch?"

A deep sigh then. "Sean doesn't remember it. Doesn't remember much about Dad at all, except what other people have told him, which, naturally, is all glowing and wonderful. I broached it once, in a round about way, and it was clear he had no idea what I was skirting."

Reid's eyes were thoughtful, and watchful. "You've never told ANYONE about this?"

"Not until this moment. Like you said, we're all profilers...people know...but nobody talks about it. Like what you've been through." A sudden, painful stab made Hotch look down at his feet. "All the shit I've been through on this job, Reid, all the things I've SEEN, and do you know what the single worst moment for me was, outside of Foyet? That incident in Des Plaines...Philip Dowd. Trapped with you in that hospital...screaming at YOU, kicking YOU, for all the word to see acting like HIM..." Hotch's voice rose with each word.

"Hey...HEY!" Eyes wide, Reid reached over to his boss, grasping both of his hands firmly, afraid the man would completely lose it. "Hotch...that was more than FIVE years ago! We're both ALIVE because of what you did, not to mention we saved a score of other people who were hostages. Hotch, you are NOT your father. You may have, in that moment in time, used what he was in order to get us the hell out of there...but for what motive? You put me in a possition to shoot him...you trusted me with that. It's one of your worst memories? Hotch, it's one of my BEST!"

That brought his boss to a full blown stop. "What?" He asked, all befuddled, brow furrowed low.

"I'd been on the job just a few years...the youngest agent ever. Most people still treated me like a teaching assistant. You never did. You took all the time with me you could to get me qualified for firearms, but when that failed, you never made me feel like less of an agent. And when the time came to move, you trusted me, despite having seen me shoot, with bringing the son of a bitch down." Reid let go of his boss's arms, but did not break their stare. "Hotch, that case is the first time I really knew I was an FBI agent. A few bruises were a very small price to pay for that moment." He tried to force a smile. "Besides which, I am assuming your old man never bothered to apologize?"

"Ha." Hotch snorted, sitting back just a bit. "I don't think the words 'I'm sorry' were ones he even knew." He sighed. "I did know that you never blamed me for any of that, Reid...though I never realized the slightly bizarre spin you DID put on it. But even knowing that...the place that I had to let myself go at that moment just wasn't very comfortable for me. It's haunted me."

"Clearly." Reid started to say something else, then decided against it for the time being. "We've gotten rather far afield from the issue at hand, namely, Jack."

Hotch once again returned Spencer's gaze with one that was both open and raw. "I don't want Jack to hate me, Reid. But...I can't risk his safety. Attacking you that day was a plan. Attacking him, even if not nearly as violent, that was uncontrolled."

"Okay..." Reid said slowly. "Let's go back to that night. Let's put ourselves in Jack's shoes...he's scared. He's never seen you this angry. And then...did Jessica just pick him up from you?"

"He was asleep when she carried him out." Hotch replied.

"Right. So, he wakes up then at Jessica's house. You're not there. The last time he saw you all he knows is that he made you very, very angry. And now suddenly people are telling him he's going to be living with Jessica permanently. I would imagine that what he's thinking now is that he's made you so angry, he's been so bad, that you don't want him anymore. And I don't think that's what you want him thinking." Reid grasped Hotch's forearm once more.

His boss's face had contorted in pain, his head twisted away. "Oh, God..." He tried to pull from Spencer's grasp, but Reid wasn't having any of that. And he was stronger than he looked.

"Hotch...talk to him. Go there...tonight, if possible...and talk to him. Tell him what you told me now. Tell him that you love him. Tell him that you're scared too. Kids understand more than we think they do." Reid managed a smile. "Even ones without eidetic memories."

Hotch forced a huff that might have been a laugh. He wiped at his eyes with his free hand. "Reid...I _am_ scared. What if it happens again?"

"I don't think it will." Reid said, thoughtfully. "Like you said, this has scared the hell out of you too. And Hotch...you're NOT your father. Your father wouldn't be sitting here with me trying to figure out how in the hell to do what is best for his son." He paused, pulling his hand away, leaning back in the his chair. "Can I ask you something?"

Hotch gave him an incredulous gaze. "Seriously? At this point, could I stop you?"

Reid smiled wryly. "Did you ever get therapy after what happened to Haley?"

The sigh he got in return from his boss answered him before the words could be spoken. "No. I sent Jack for some...but I...just couldn't. I passed my psych evaluation."

"Which cleared you to go in to work with a staff of six people who are at best quirky, and handle jobs that require you to look into the bowels of human nature on a daily basis. The psych eval wasn't looking at how you were doing in your daily life." Reid paused, folding his hands together in thought. "I don't have a lot of regrets, Hotch, but the one I do is not seeking therapy after Georgia. I passed my psych evaluation too...but I wasn't alright. I did my damndest to not let anyone see that, but it didn't make it true."

Hotch's eyes were clear now. "I am sorry I didn't step in to help you, Reid. I wanted to. Gideon talked me out of it. He said he helped you. And I...was a coward. I wanted to not get involved because I'd be reliving what we'd seen you go through; I wasn't comfortable with doing that. I felt like enoiugh of a failure for what you suffered."

Reid was marginally surprised at Hotch saying that. "Hotch, YOU didn't kidnap and torture me. You can't blame yourself." Reid shrugged. "And I think Gideon did help me...as much as he was capable of. He wasn't actually real good at that kind of thing. I don't think, honestly, he ever really understood how badly the drugs sucked me in, or what hell I went through going off of them, or the daily battles I suffered afterwards. He wanted me to work it out for myself...but although any addict needs to make the first move on their own, they do far better with a support group. Eventually, I found one."

Anger tinged Aaron Hotchner's countenance. "If I had known that's all Gideon was doing for you, I WOULD have done more. He kept telling me I was better off not officially knowing, because then Strauss could never call me on it."

"He wasn't wrong about that." Reid admitted.

"Yes, because I make a habit of doing things 'officially' and 'by the book'." He scowled in to the darkness.

Reid shook himself slightly. "Stop making this about me. I've been sober for over three years now. This is about Jack." Reid got up, and extended his hand to his boss, lifting him from the chair. "Please go talk to him."

Hotch paused a moment, then pulled out his cell phone. Reid watched as he dialed. "Jessica? It's Aaron...I want to come by to see Jack..." Pause. "Yeah, I am reconsidering...someone made me see that I was being a colossal idiot." Another pause. "Yes, I know you told me that first." Reid found himself smiling. "You weren't as persuasive." A few seconds went by. "As fast as I can get there." He whispered, before hanging up.

"Don't speed." Reid warned, as he gathered his gun and badge. "Can I assume I am not fired?"

Hotch gave him the steely-eyed boss glare. "Your ass better be in your chair Monday morning, or I will have you hunted down."

Reid smirked, and went to douse the dying embers with water before heading in for the night, assuming Hotch would be seeing himself out. He was surprised then at the touch on his shoulder, and looked up in to Hotch's eyes.

"Reid...thank you." He said, with so much earnestness that Spencer found himself unable to do more than nod.

Then Hotch was off, to go retrieve his son. And Reid trembled just a bit, in relief at how it had all turned out.

Jack was going to be okay. So was Hotch. And he still had a job. Sometimes, things really did work out for the best.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's note: Thanks to all who reviewed! This story will have 3 chapters.

X X X X

Hotch got to Jessica's house within 15 minutes. On what should have been a twenty minute drive. Well, that didn't count as speeding too much, did it? He barely noticed the front stairs and didn't have to ring the bell...Jessica opened the door for him.

"Can I call you an idiot, again?" She said, arms crossed and a faint smirk on her face.

"Any time." Hotch nervously managed a smile. "Is he, um, still awake?"

"Probably. I don't think he's been sleeping well this past week." She pointed out. Hotch flinched, and she patted his arm. "You're here, Aaron. He needs you. How can you face nut jobs with firearms without blinking, and be brought to your knees by a five year old child?"

"The nut jobs don't matter to me." But Jack did...oh, Jack did...more than the kid ever knew, or would probably believe, right now.

_Make him believe._ Reid's voice prodded him. _Get your butt up the stairs and stop procrastinating!_

When the hell had Spencer gotten so forceful? Hell, when had Hotch started hearing voices in his mind? And Reid was the one afraid of Schizophrenia?

"Aaron?" Jessica asked, seeing him hesitate.

"Right. God hates a coward." Hotch muttered, and moved quietly up the stairs to the room where Jack slept.

He stood in the doorway for a moment, breath held in, afraid to move, Jack was sprawled on the bed, one arm grasped around an old stuffed animal...a large dinosaur..that Hotch had bought him years ago. He listened for a second to the breathing; it was irregular and restless, so he knew his son wasn't sleeping. But what did he say?

"Jack?" The single world, half prayer, half plea, came out before he could over think it.

Jack whipped around in the bed, staring towards the doorway. The light from the hallway illuminated his son's face, and Hotch felt fear clutch at him. He waited for Jack to recoil from him, to back away in fear from another violent onslaught, to try to pry himself into a corner in the vain hopes that an irrationally angry adult wouldn't be able to pull him out of it.

It was a maneuver Hotch remembered too well from his own childhood, in the days before he'd become resigned to his father's abuse.

Suddenly, without warning, Jack flew out of the bed, and launched himself at his father with all the speed a five year hold could have. Hotch found himself lifting the boy without thought, and Jack suction-cupped himself to his chest, legs around his waist, arms tightly clutching to his suit coat, head buried in his shoulder as he let lose with heart-rending sobs.

Apparently Jack was not afraid of him. Just as apparently, Reid had nailed the profile of what his son was going through. He'd have to get working on a raise.

Hotch hugged the child back, tears in his own eyes as he kissed the boy; walking forward, he came in and sat on the bed; Jack didn't budge.

"Sorry, Daddy...sorry...so sorry I was bad...sorry...sorry..." Jack's words hiccuped out of him, between the gasping cries.

"No, Jack...I'm sorry." Hotch whispered, unable to keep his own tears from falling. "I'm sorry I lost my temper with you."

"I'm bad...I'm bad..." Jack said again. "I threw the sandwich!"

"NO!" Hotch's voice was urgent. "Jack, you are not bad...you did a bad thing! And then I did something bad, too...and I made it worse because I was such a coward."

With a gulp, Jack forced down his sobs at that statement. "Daddy? You're not scared of anything!" Jack gasped, leaning back to look at his father in shock.

"I'm scared of so many things, Jack!" Hotch admitted. "Every day when I go to work, I'm scared of what will happen to you while I'm not there. But when I'm not with my team, I'm scared of what will happen to them when I'm not there. But mostly, that night...I was scared when I lost my temper and hit you, and I was scared that you would stop loving me."

That last he admitted in a quieter voice; fearing what Jack would say, he rushed on.

"And I thought it would be better for you if you weren't near me. I was scared I might hurt you again." Hotch wiped the tears away from Jack's face, now thoughtful, though his lower lip still trembled. "I won't, Jack. A friend made me understand that. I..." He hesitated. "I won't be like..."

"Like your daddy?" Jack said.

Hotch's shock must have been plain on his face, because his son continued. "I asked Mommy once why I only had one Grandpa, and she said your Daddy had been dead a long time. An' she said I shouldn't ask you about him because he was a bad man and he used to like to hurt people, an' it would make you sad to remember him."

"Right." Hotch sighed out deeply. He wished he'd realized that Haley had told Jack even that much, but then, at the time Jack would have been old enough to ask the question, they'd already have been separated. "He was a bad man...a very bad father. That night when I hit you, Jack, I remembered what he was like, and I didn't want to be like that."

"Did he hurt you bad, Daddy?" Jack asked, his voice tiny with awe.

_How to find a short answer appropriate to a 5 year old? How to explain his childhood without giving his son nightmares? _"Yeah, Jack...he used to hurt me bad. He got angry very easy, and I could never be good enough for him. He broke my bones, even, because he was so much bigger than I was and I couldn't fight back. By the time he died, I hated him." Hotch rested his chin on Jack's head. "I don't ever want you to hate me."

Jack looked up at him, eyes wide. "I would never hate you, Daddy! Never!"

"Remember that when you're a teenager..." Hotch grumbled. Jack just shot him an incredibly stubborn glare.

"I won't hate you." He said, in extreme seriousness.

Hotch gave a smile then, a genuine one, as he pushed Jack's hair off his face. "Got it, buddy. And I'll tell you this...we might have arguments sometimes, both of us...I might get angry at you. But I want you to remember this, always: you are the most important thing in my life. I love you with every bit of my heart and soul. No matter how angry we get with each other, nothing will ever change that."

Jack's eyes got watery once more, and he reached up and hugged Hotch again. "Love you too, Daddy." He paused. "Can we go home?"

"Yes...yes, Jack. We can go home."

After a short gathering of clothing, and a quick goodbye to Jessica, Hotch was making sure his son was buckled in to his booster seat. There would definitely be no speeding tonight.

"Daddy...you said a friend made you understand you weren't going to be like your father. Who, Daddy?" Jack asked, even as a yawn split his face.

"Your uncle Spencer." Hotch gave a rueful smile. "Would not take no for an answer and insisted on making me listen to him, even when I didn't want to. He knew that letting you go was a bad idea."

"Oh, that makes sense..." Jack drawled out. Hotch raised his eyebrows; if his kid had figured out Reid's troubled past then he was going to have to try and find a program for gifted child profilers!

Or not. "...Uncle Spencer knows EVERYTHING." Jack's eyes began to flutter closed.

Hotch grinned at his boy. "He sure does, buddy. He sure does."

X X X X

Spencer Reid wandered restlessly around the house after Hotch left. He was pretty confident that Hotch and Jack would be fine now. That wasn't the problem. But the conversation with his boss, as wide-reaching as it had been, had stirred up some of his own ghosts.

Finally, and with force, he sat himself down at his desk and began writing a letter.

"Dear Dad...

It's me again, Spencer. I had a rather interesting situation happen tonight that made me think of you, and, well, I wanted to try.

I know that the last time we saw each other it was pretty ugly. I mean, I was accusing you of murder; that's not a good thing. But I'd hoped...I know that there's a lot of water under the bridge now, and that you've moved on with your life. So have I, really. But still...I wouldn't mind trying to have a relationship with you. I actually would really like to try. I know it really can't be father and son, not after all this time, but I would like to get to know you. You're the only father I have.

Anyway, if you want to write to me, or call, well, the address and phone number are the same. Maybe the next time I am in Nevada to visit mom we could have lunch or something. It doesn't have to be personal, if you don't want it to be. We could talk about your classes, or whatever. But I would just like to talk.

Hope to hear from you,

Spencer."

Before he could over-think himself, Reid folded up the letter, addressed it, and stamped it. He walked outside to the mailbox, put it in there next to the one he'd already written to his Mom, and made sure the flag was raised. Closing the box, he stood there for a moment, his arms wrapped defensively around himself, hands rubbing up and down his biceps.

Maybe his father would answer this one. Maybe he would finally have forgiven him for that little bit of ugliness they'd been through in Nevada.

Maybe this wouldn't be like the last fifteen unacknowledged letters and phone calls he'd tried.

He could still hope, right?

X X X X

Six weeks later, Aaron Hotchner was looking over the bullpen with a faint smile...as much of one as he generally allowed at work...even as he was pinning up a new drawing from his son. He spotted Spencer Reid leaning back in his chair, twirling a pencil and apparently engaging in his usual banter with Derek Morgan. And Hotch's smile became just a bit more pronounced.

Because of Reid, he had his son back.

Because of Reid...and the young agent's unending stubbornness...Jack was happy.

After he'd picked up Jack that day, all that weekend they'd spent together, talking...and laughing, and playing. It had been a precious forty-eight hours. Yet, Hotch was not blind. He could see that Jack was still insecure, and because of that (though he still feared it) they had in fact started counseling.

Best move he'd ever made. Once a week they saw a therapist together/ It began with Hotch having some idea of helping his son adjust to everything. Six weeks later, Hotch could admit that he needed the help more than Jack, and more than he had ever realized. Quite possibly he'd never really dealt with what his own childhood had done to him.

_Quite possibly? Some of our unsubs have dealt better with their past than you have!_

He shook his head, and moved back to the doorway, leaning against the frame, able to hear some of the light banter going on down below. That banter was interrupted momentarily when Reid's phone rang; tossing a wad of paper at Derek Morgan's head, Spencer moved to answer it.

"You look like a mother cat observing her kittens." David Rossi quipped, moving beside him. "Heck, you're even smiling."

"Optical illusion." Hotch replied. Morgan's laugh came up to him; the athletic agent had thrown the paper ball at Prentiss and was being chased around the room in consequence. He let them play. A new case would happen soon enough; one thing Strauss had never understood was how moments like this were NECESSARY for his team to keep their sanity.

He glanced back at Reid before planning on going in to his office, and what he saw made his smile disappear.

Reid's own body language had changed. His relaxed pose in the chair had gone rigid; he now sat upright and leaned on one elbow. His face seemed to pale...although with Reid it was hard to tell. The pencil he'd been twirling suddenly snapped. With one hand he pushed his hair back off his face; even from the doorway Hotch could see that hand shaking.

"Hey, Hotch, will you tell Morgan to grow up..." Prentiss grumbled as she came close to him, but he didn't acknowledge her.

He walked down the stairs in to the pen, moving with purpose up to Reid's desk.

"...thank you for letting me know." Reid's voice, strained, ended the call, and he gingerly replaced the receiver.

"What's wrong, Reid?" Hotch said at once, his voice strong enough to let Reid know that he wasn't going to take 'nothing' for an answer.

To his credit, Reid never even tried. "That was Bennington." Reid named the sanitarium where his mother resided. "And...uh..." He rubbed his hand over his head once more, looking confused...lost. "It seems my Mom is...dead."

Hotch felt the news on Reid's behalf like a punch in the gut. Prentiss had heard as well, and turned to go to get Morgan, who had taken refuge in the break room. "Was she sick?" He asked, feeling equally confused.

"Not at all, that I'm aware of. The Doctor is being...vague." Reid shook his head slightly. "Said he couldn't tell me much over the phone...needed to see me in person." Now the young agent looked up at him. "I'm, uh, going to need a few days off."

"As much as you need." Hotch said at once. Bereavement policy allowed 5 days for a mother...but screw policy. As he'd pointed out to Reid six weeks ago, he wasn't actually known for going by the book. He glanced over to JJ, who'd been retrieved by Rossi. "Jayj, can you book him a flight to Vegas?"

Reid blinked slightly. "I can handle that...I just need to figure out...um..."

JJ squeezed his shoulder, and reached over to give him a hug, which he accepted awkwardly. "I'll make all the arrangements for you, Spence. You get headed home to get what you need, and I'll email you the details Don't worry about a thing."

Reid stopped protesting. "Thanks."

"I'll drive you, pretty boy." Morgan appeared suddenly, concern etched on his face. "You're driving sucks when you're _not_ distracted." He tried to bring some lightness.

It worked...sort of. Hotch saw Reid give Morgan the thinnest of smiles. "Ha, ha." He picked up his bag, the thing suddenly looking as if it weighted a hundred pounds to him. "Hotch, I don't know when...I mean..."

"Call me when you land." Hotch encouraged, grasping the agent's forearm, as he had done to him not so long ago. "Keep me updated. If you need anything, we're here."

Reid's clear hazel eyes met his, some of the confusion now replaced with gratitude. "Thanks, Hotch. Right now I'm just a little...stunned."

Hotch gave a little nod of understanding, a squeeze of Reid's forearm, and then let go; he watched with concern as his young agent ambled forward behind Morgan, as if he were barely sure of where he was going.

Rossi was beside him once more as they walked away; JJ had gone in to her office to make travel plans, and Prentiss had moved towards where Garcia's office was, no doubt to spread the information.

"Geez, tough luck, huh?" Rossi said. "Does he have any family he can call on?"

"None." Hotch said. "Other than his father, of course. Dave, you were with him on that case...is it possible that William Reid will actually be of any use to him?"

"I can't say for sure. I thought that by the time we left there they'd come to a bit of understanding, but then, I've never heard the kid mention him since." Rossi stroked at his beard thoughtfully.

Right. Hotch was remembering back to their own conversation, about Hotch's troubled past and his concerns over Jack:

"_Do you have any idea how hard it is to pretend to mourn a man you'd come to hate?"_

"_No." Reid answered truthfully. "My father isn't dead yet."_

That didn't exactly sound like Reid expected the man to be terribly useful. Hotch frowned, then spoke in a low voice to Rossi. "I asked Reid to give me details as soon as he's got them. I'm going to ask Strauss for permission for the team to attend the funeral. He shouldn't be alone then."

"Agreed. For better or worse, looks like we ARE his family." Rossi replied.

Hotch gave half a smirk. "Right. Picture postcard perfectly dysfunctional, but nevertheless, family."

X X X X

That night, a very angry Aaron Hotchner sat on his sofa, a glass of wine in his hand, waiting for the phone to ring. Not far away Jack was sitting, coloring quietly. He'd managed to get through dinner and the early evening without letting his son SEE how angry he was; he'd learned that Jack automatically assumed that if Hotch were angry, it was at him. And he assuredly was NOT angry at his young son.

His boss, however...

Hotch pursed his lips in a frown. Strauss had emphatically denied giving the team permission to travel, regardless of where the funeral was, for anything other than business reasons. They could request vacation time, of course, but then, she was the arbiter of approval, and she made it clear that she saw no reason to do any such thing. "Let Reid be with his family." She'd said, sounding entirely logical. Except, of course, the woman knew full well Reid HAD no family.

"You're angry, Daddy." Jack said, timidly, looking up from his coloring book, chewing on his own lip thoughtfully.

Hotch blinked at once, and forced a smile. "Not at you, buddy." He reached out an arm, and Jack took it; he pulled the boy on to the sofa and hugged him close. "Daddy's boss made a very wrong decision today, and it's made me very frustrated."

"Oh." Jack thought that over. "Can I help?"

"Boy, I wish you could." Hotch sighed and kissed his son on the head. "Actually, you are helping, just by letting me hug you for a little bit."

Just then the phone rang. Spencer.

Jack sensed his need to have the conversation, and released his father; Hotch rose to pace. "Reid...what news?"

A pause then. "Hey, Hotch. Um...got a minute?"

"Of course."

"They, ah, have to do an autopsy before there can be a funeral." Hotch heard Reid's fragility over the phone lines from three thousand miles away. "It's required in the case of suicides."

_Oh, God._ "Reid, I'm so sorry." He spoke quickly. How in the hell did something like this happen in a high class mental institution? He knew Reid sunk every spare dime he had into keeping his mother in a private facility. "How...I mean, do they know why? Are they telling you anything?"

"It wasn't her fault." Privately Hotch wondered how many conversations in Reid's life he'd had to start with that defense. "They'd, ah, changed her medicine, apparently. She'd become resistant to the other drugs, had fewer good days between bad spells. Happens a lot with folks who take these kind of drugs for an extended period of time. So, anyway, this new medication comes out, and it shows a lot of promise, with a few side effects."

"Side effects?" Hotch asked, quietly.

"Occasional headaches, nausea, in rare cases extreme paranoia and severe depression." Hotch could almost see Reid's twisted lips. "You know my mom, not content to go for the run of the mill...she went right for the paranoia."

"Weren't they watching her?" He asked, utterly befuddled.

"Thing about my mother is that she actually is...was...extremely intelligent. Intelligence and paranoia are a really bad combination. They restrained her until the drugs could work their way out of her system. And she knew what they were up to. Apparently she faked NOT being paranoid, long enough for them to let her free. Then she, um, got hold of something she could use as a rope and..." He heard Reid swallowing hard.

_Damn Strauss and her no-travel edict! Reid should not be dealing alone with this now._ "It's not your fault, Reid." He found himself saying automatically, somehow positive that Reid would find a way to blame himself on this.

"She left a note...her paranoia...she was convinced that she was going to be kidnapped by agents of the government, as a way to get to me. They were going to capture me and torture me for the state secrets I hold." He gave a very dead-sounding laugh. "You know, that all important information about how Rossi likes his coffee, which flavor of cupcake Em prefers, Morgan's favorite ballplayer growing up."

"Reid..." Hotch repeated firmly. "This is NOT your fault, And if your mother had been lucid she would never have left you a letter making you think that it was. She loved you."

"Obviously. Enough to die for me." There was a very tired sigh again. "And I do hear what you're saying. I know all this guilt is pointless. Right now I'm just...numb. Shocked. I don't know." He waited a second. "Anyway, I wanted you to know that it might be another couple of days before the funeral...the autopsy might be a formality, but they're probably going to also want to run a few tests for the meds...hell, who knows."

"Spencer Reid, you listen to me carefully." Hotch kept his voice in full boss mode. "You have my permission to take all the time you need to get everything settled. You do whatever you have to do."

"Thanks, Hotch...but as soon as the funeral is over I'm getting the hell back to Virginia. It wouldn't bother me if I never saw Vegas again."

With that, his young agent hung up, and Hotch found himself slamming his own phone down with a bit more force than was perhaps necessary.

"Daddy?" Jack's voice was tentative again. "Is Uncle Spencer okay?"

Hotch blinked, and remembered what the therapist said...that keeping secrets from Jack wouldn't work; he would just imagine things even worse than what were true. He turned and put his hand on his son's shoulder, then bent down and picked him up; Jack's legs and arms wrapped around him, but the boy's worried eyes kept lock on his father.

Well, sadly, this was something he'd be able to explain too easily. "Jack...Your Uncle Spencer just found out that his Mom died."

"Oh." Jack's eyes flooded with tears, but he held them bravely back. "Did someone hurt her like Mommy?"

"No...Spencer's Mom has been fighting an illness for a long time. And she just got tired of fighting, I guess. But Spencer's still very sad." Hotch pressed his own forehead to his son's, and Jack squeezed him even tighter, chewing on his lip thoughtfully again, clearly remembering things.

"Can we go see him? Like he came here when Mom died?" Jack spoke quickly. "I'll be really good, I will...I want to give Uncle Spencer a hug like he did for me. An' he stayed with me that afternoon an he played with my blocks with me...he made me feel lots better. I wanna be there for him."

There were no words for how proud Hotch was of his son in that moment. "Me too, buddy. That's why Daddy is so mad at his boss. He already asked her if the team could be with Reid, and she said no."

Jack's eyes got hard, in an unconscious imitation of his father. "That's not right." He frowned. "She didn't stop anyone from coming when Mommy died."

"Yes, well..." Hotch walked over to the map of the United States, the one he kept up so he could show Jack where cases were taking him. "See, Mommy's funeral was right here, where we all work. So nobody had to take any days off. Reid's Mom died here..." He pointed to Las Vegas, dragging is finger across the map from Quantico. "In Nevada."

Jack got it. "That's far."

"Yeah, really far." Hotch admitted with a sigh. "But Daddy's going to keep trying. There's got to be something we can do..."

"You'll figure it out, Daddy." Jack said with great confidence. "You're the smartest person in the whole world!" Jack said with great confidence, laying his head on his father's shoulder. And then he continued..."Except Uncle Spencer, of course."

Hotch smiled at Jack's quick understanding of the situation. He just hoped that he really was able to get something done. Spencer deserved that.

X X X X

It was 6am when his phone rang. JJ. A case. Naturally. "Hotchner."

"Hotch, I have a solution."

He blinked, at was at once wide awake. "Speak to me, Jayj."

"Tahoe. The gym murders."

Hotch frowned, trying to remember. JJ fielded all potential cases for them. They had, of course, far more requests than could be handled, and JJ was usually good at sorting through them. Some were clearly misplaced...not the sort of work that they did...and were referred to other departments. Some, a good number in fact, were long distance consults...cases that actually weren't all that complex but which one of his agents could take a quick look at a file and provide some new angles for local law enforcement to follow up on. The exceptional ones were the ones that called for "wheels up"...full team to a major case needing their intervention.

Just yesterday, JJ had diagnosed Tahoe as a category two situation...and had handed the file to Prentiss for local law enforcement follow up.

"Has it escalated?" Hotch asked, confused.

"Not really...but Strauss doesn't know that." Jayj said, with perhaps the hint of a smirk in her voice. "Tahoe doesn't realize that their enormous problem is tic-tac-toe for us, so they'll just be happy to have us. And it puts us in Nevada. If one of our team were then to drive over to Vegas to be with Reid...say, you...who would know? And then, if we were able to wrap it up by the day of the funeral, which seems probable, no reason we can't depart from Vegas."

Hotch lit up at the scheme. "Jayj, you are brilliant. Utterly, amazingly brilliant and entirely irreplaceable. I don't tell you that enough."

"By the way, Tahoe is going to need technical help as well...because you know there's no shot in hell of Garcia being left out." She added, ignoring his uncharacteristically effusive praise.

He did hesitate just a bit. "Jayj...were not...endangering anything, are we? I know we all want to be there for Reid, but we're not acting irresponsible?"

"There's no other case on the docket that would require our attention." She soothed. "I'll be monitoring new requests, and if we get something in that really is urgent, I'll call Tahoe off."

Right. They could do this, following Strauss's orders, and do the right thing at the same time. "Call wheels up, Jayj. I'll alert Jessica about Jack and meet you all on the plane."

As he hung up, though, Hotch was remembering Jack's concern about Spencer from last night. Jack wanted to be there for Reid, and Hotch didn't want to deny him that chance. Still, he could hardly bring Jack with him on a trip to Nevada...even Strauss wasn't that stupid.

He had an idea, and he reached for his phone. He owed Reid for what he'd done for him with Jack, and he wasn't going to let that go unpaid.


	3. Chapter 3

Thanks one more time for all the reviews. The third and final chapter of this story is below...I hope you continue to enjoy!

As always, I make no ownership claims on any of these characters...

X X X X

Spencer Reid was…exhausted. The time change was still screwing up his body, but even without that little problem, he hadn't slept much…well, actually, at all…since he'd gotten the still-shocking news. His mind had been reeling the whole flight over, a quick trip to Bennington had given him information that upset him more, not less, and yesterday he'd spent the day going through his mother's personal effects, waiting for an answer on the autopsy and making initial calls to funeral homes. Today, he just felt like he'd been bombarded with decisions, questions, requests…drama.

He remembered his quip to Rossi, when Rossi had asked what he needed to solve a particularly complex problem: _"The ability to clone myself and a year's supply of adderall." _Rossi's response? "I'll put on the coffee." Well, adderall was out of the question, but cloning was seeming like a particularly wonderful idea.

For example, he'd love to send a clone right now to have the conversation he was about to force with his father.

He'd called the man before he'd gotten on the plane. Left a message. No response. Called again from the airport…not that, like, he expected his father to do anything like say, "Why don't you stay with me?", but still…no answer, no response. Called again when he'd checked in to the hotel, called at the end of the day yesterday once he discovered his mother's body…ugh…had been cleared for burial. He hadn't gotten a response until this morning, and then it had been a terse message that he'd meet Spencer for lunch at the hotel.

Now he found himself restlessly waiting at a café table for his old man to show up. Half expecting that he wouldn't. Like that would shock him. He wondered if he was really out of line to say he needed the help…would like someone else perhaps to go with him to the funeral home and pick out a casket and decide on flowers and other things that just seemed so FUCKING POINTLESS when your mother was dead. He didn't need financial help…although the fact that his mother had committed suicide had effectively resulted in no life insurance payout, she'd had some savings from when Spencer had sold their old house. He'd had on occasion to dip in to the fund to cover the costs of Bennington, but there was enough left to make sure she had a proper burial.

He could hear her now: _Stuff and nonsense, Spencer! People waste too much time in the trappings of death. My memory is in your mind, not in a pot of ashes on your mantle!"_

Well and good that she thought that way. Unfortunately the state of Nevada was rather funny about requiring certain necessities after death, and he, as her only child, was not going to sit back and let them just shove her in to a pauper's grave. He knew she wouldn't have cared…but HE did.

His cell phone buzzed…he looked down. A text message confirming his appointment at the funeral home to go this afternoon to go over final arrangements. He had fifteen voice-mails…he'd given Bennington permission to give out his phone number to anyone wishing to call him about attending his mom's memorial. He hadn't expected many; but he was wrong. Though she hadn't taught in over 10 years, several of her old colleagues…and students…seemed to be coming out of the woodwork to pay tribute to her. Reid sighed; while he was happy to have the tangible reminder of the woman she used to be, this all meant that he was going to be expected to provide some kind of…what, reception? When he was at the funeral home, he'd ask about a place people could gather, that he could cater in with light sandwiches or something. That was what people did at times like this, right?

That was what "the family" did when somebody died. And, for what it was worth, he was "the family."

"Hello, Spencer…" A voice said to him from above.

Reid got up quickly, feeling strange and awkward. "Um, Dad…Hi."

His father looked unchanged from when last he saw him; still giving off an air of being a beatnik, although technically that was wrong for his father's generation. Reid wondered if he still carried a copy of "On The Road" with him everywhere. "Thanks for coming."

The man looked around uncomfortably, and then sat across from him; Reid sat back down as well. The older man leaned forward on his elbows. "I figured you'd keep calling unless I did."

Reid flushed. "Right." He huffed lightly. "I just thought…well, you were her husband. You should know what happened. You might want to be involved." When there was no speech from the man across from him, he continued. "I would LIKE for you to be involved." He waited, and then in something that was remarkably uncommon for Spencer Reid, he practically begged. "Please?"

Reid had learned a long time ago not to ask for things from other people. They always seemed to let him down. At least, until he got to the BAU…and even still, it was hard for him to ask for help.

His father was not a member of the BAU.

"You have A LOT of nerve, Spencer." The man hissed. "Seriously? I walked away from your mother nearly twenty years ago because I never wanted to FACE this day. You think I didn't know where this was heading? Or am I wrong, did she not take her own life?"

"They changed her meds…." Reid began defending, feeling his pulse quicken in anger.

His father swept on. "And the last time I saw YOU, you were accusing me of being a murderer. NOW you want to try playing at being my son?"

Reid winced. "I've tried calling you…tried writing." He defended himself. "You never responded."

"And if you were as much of a genius as you are purported to be, you'd have taken the hint." His father shook his head. "Look, Spencer, I have a life…I've remarried. She has three boys of her own. I've adopted them. I'm their father. Not yours."

The blow was more crushing than he'd have expected.

"So…what was the point, then?" Reid asked, keeping his voice controlled. "All that keeping tabs on me that I found out about the last time; the newspaper clippings, the trade journals where I've published articles? WHY did you do that?"

William Reid looked embarrassed. "I was…curious. Not sure how you'd have turned out. To be honest, I was a little surprised you'd ended up somewhat normal. It…validated my choices."

_Validated his choices? _"I'm so glad that the fact that I didn't end up a raging psychopath made you feel good about walking out on a ten year old child and his schizophrenic mother." His voice dripped ice. "Tell me…your new sons…are they normal?"

"What do you mean?"

"Do they play baseball? Get average grades? Hang out at the mall, play video games? For their sake I certainly hope so." Reid felt rage boiling beneath the surface, and he was controlling it with only the greatest effort.

"They're good kids." William defended. "We have plans to go camping this weekend. I won't let them down." He coughed. "Besides, they don't know about you. Never did seem to be much point in telling them. So it would be a little awkward if I had to cancel for the funeral."

"I'm so sorry to have been such an inconvenience. You'd have been wiser to encourage her to have an abortion." He shot back.

"If I'd realized all the potential ramifications of her disease, I would have." William returned, equally angry.

They just stared at each other for several seconds, Reid in shock from the hurtful words; exhausted and angry, he no longer trusted himself in what he'd say. When he did finally find his voice, his words were terse. "You're free to leave. I will handle the funeral arrangements, the luncheon, the flowers, the cremation. I will handle everything the way I always have." His hands gripped the edge of the table, knuckles white. "I would suggest you leave now. I am licensed to carry a handgun, and you know children of mentally unstable parents might not always be so stable themselves."

A sudden, unexpected voice spoke from behind him, like the voice of God. "If he doesn't shoot you, I will."

X X X X

Aaron Hotchner had arrived at the hotel just around noon.

Yesterday, they'd flown to Tahoe. He'd been required, of course, to spend time with the local officials; it wouldn't have been right for him to cut and run immediately. However, that morning he'd pulled the police chief aside and said he'd had an agent in Vegas in need of assistance; with the rest of the crack team there, the man had been more than understanding.

So he'd gotten in his car and driven here; starting with the hotel where Spencer was staying. And the desk manager had been more than happy to inform him that in fact Doctor Reid was at that moment having lunch in the hotel's café.

_At least he's eating._ Hotch thought, and went right away to find him.

He'd come up on the back of the table in the middle of an argument. It took him a few seconds to realize the other person there was Reid's father. And he stood behind Reid, out of eye-shot, not intentionally eavesdropping, just surprised in to inaction.

He'd come upon them when Reid was awkwardly pointing out the number of times he'd tried to reach out to his father. Rather surprising; he and Rossi had discussed whether or not Reid had been able to re-establish relations with the man, and had surmised based on Reid's total silence on the subject that it hadn't been attempted. Apparently, Reid had TRIED, but relationship building required two people, not one. No wonder he hadn't said anything; every unreturned phone call or letter must have been mortifying.

The father pointing out that Reid had been replaced by children who were quote-un-quote normal, that William Reid wanted no part of acknowledging his child, not even in his time of deepest need, that in fact William Reid wished Spencer didn't exist, had never existed, filled him with rage and loathing he hadn't known he could feel.

Suddenly Spencer's stubborn insistence that Hotch not walk out on Jack became crystal clear.

As he noticed Reid barely containing himself, he came forward. "If he doesn't shoot you, I will."

As he made that statement, he put his hand on Reid's shoulder. And squeezed. He felt the tremble in his young agent's body, and hoped just to radiate strength for him. He felt Reid exhale, almost in relief.

William Reid stood, regarding Hotch in some alarm. "Who are YOU?"

"I'm his boss." Hotch said quickly. "And as an FBI agent, I can assure you I would have methods of making my disposal of you seem entirely legal."

"Right." The man took one look at Spencer. "I'd say I'm sorry but…"

He felt Reid tense. "Just go!" Hotch hissed, still keeping hold of Reid's shoulder.

And with that, the man did.

At that second, a waitress took the chance to drop a BLT at Reid's place. She looked Hotch over carefully. "Can I get you something, Sir?"

"Reuben Sandwich, club soda." He replied, easing his grip on Reid and finally letting go, coming around to take the chair abandoned by the father. As the woman walked away, he looked over to a stunned Spencer. "I hope you're not going to not eat that."

Reid blinked once. "If I told you I'd just lost my appetite, would you believe me?"

"I totally believe you. I'm still going to insist you eat some of it. You need your energy." Hotch looked him over. "And some sleep."

"Hasn't been a lot of time." Reid grumbled, then shook his head, listlessly picking a slice of bacon from between the bread. "Um, you're here." He pointed out, the statement containing more than a bit of a question.

"Of course I am." Hotch said, making it sound like the most natural thing in the world. "You didn't think I was going to let you go through this by yourself?"

He watched Spencer tremble for just one second, a brief hint of wetness I his eyes that vanished so quickly that if Hotch didn't have the eyes of a profiler he'd have missed it. Another piece of bacon was picked up; he fiddled with it for a second before nibbling on it slightly. "Surprised Strauss let you."

"Technically she didn't." Hotch smiled calmly. "The team has a case in Tahoe and there was nothing more easy for me to come over to Vegas to lend a hand. The others hope to be here for the memorial."

Reid frowned. "Wait…we decided Tahoe didn't need us."

"We changed our minds." Hotch said simply. His food arrived at that moment.

This time Spencer picked up the slice of toast from the top of his plate, and started eating. "The, um, entire team is here?" He said, his voice sounding quite small.

"Yes." He considered asking why that would surprise him, but after the ugly scene he'd just witnessed, it was quite clear why it would do just that. "We all care about you. We don't want you to be alone."

"Oh."

They sat in silence for a few minutes, but not an uncomfortable one. Hotch found his sandwich to be quite good, and was pleased to see that Spencer actually seemed to be getting down a fair amount of his own food. Understanding Reid's feelings were probably rather raw at the moment, he decided to let his agent steer the conversation. Eventually, he did.

"Um, I have to go to the funeral home. There's going to be a memorial after the service and a few planning details I have to get through, so if you want to meet me back here later…"

Hotch raised his eyebrows. "Would you object to my accompanying you?" He asked,

Reid came to a standstill, hand frozen halfway to his mouth. "You don't have to." He said, then flushed. "Sorry, that came out rude…"

Hotch waved away any rudeness. "You've had a lousy few days, I'm surprised you're not more on edge. And I know I don't have to…I just figured you could use the moral support." Hotch made a point of meeting Reid's stare. "Spencer, I've buried both parents and my wife; I know this isn't easy."

Reid let his hand drop limply to the table. After stopping and starting for a few moments, he finally got some words out. One word, actually. "Thanks."

Hotch nodded, and moved to pick up the check. Reid emitted a slight squeak, but Hotch quelled him with a glare. Then he dug his keys out of his pocket.

"I'll drive. You're functioning on coffee and fumes right now." Hotch insisted.

"So the reason you won't let me drive normally is?" Reid tried.

Hotch let himself smirk. "When are you EVER not functioning on coffee and fumes?"

X X X X

Reid was still somewhat lost, sorting through everything that had happened that morning. He shouldn't have been surprised by his father's behavior, yet he was. He should have been surprised by his boss turning up to support him in something so entirely personal…yet strangely he wasn't. Although he'd never have asked for help from Hotch, somehow he found it understandable that Hotch would see that he was in need and offer assistance.

No, not offer…just provide it, without question.

That was Hotch.

Entering the funeral home, the first thing Spencer felt was how stuffy the room was. He'd have expected it to be cold, but this seemed like the air had been shunted out of the room. The man before him was explaining why a coffin was necessary with a cremation, and then had moved to a selection of urns…some elaborate, some simple…he ran through descriptions in his mind…rococo, Edwardian, Victorian, Romanesque, Grecian…honestly, how many different ways were there to hold ashes?

Ashes. His mother's ashes. His mother, going through _Janson's History of Art_ with him when he was a boy and discussing the importance of particular styles of pottery in antiquity. He could feel the heavy weight of the book on his lap...it was huge!...and see the animation on his mother's face as she described the differences between black figure and red figure designs. She'd been so happy that day…one of her good days.

And soon she would be nothing more than a pile of ash in an urn that was a pathetic copy of those vases she'd studied with him.

"Reid? Reid?" Hotch's voice came from him, a million miles away.

"Too hot." He tried to say.

The room swam in front of him. His knees buckled. He expected to feel the floor strike him in the face.

He didn't.

Hands captured him, under his armpits, and would not let him fall. Someone walked him over to a chair and sat him down. He heard a voice call for water.

Reid shook his head, but that didn't help; spots were floating over his eyes, like television snow. A faint buzzing was in his ear.

Gently he felt his head being pushed downwards, towards his lap…of course. Head between the knees when you feel faint. Why hadn't he thought of that?

Someone grasped his hands; he felt thumbs rubbing against his inner wrists, calming him. The voice spoke soothingly, though he couldn't seem to make sense of the words.

Water was held to his lips and he got some of it down; a damp cloth was rubbed over his wrists and at his temples.

Slowly, the fuzz and buzz began to fade. He trembled, but he was there.

"Hotch…" He spoke quietly, embarrassed; unsure what to say. His boss was kneeling before him, looking concerned.

"You've been through hell." Hotch spoke gently. "You are exhausted." His boss handed him water, and he downed it, amazed at how wonderfully cold it felt. "Do you trust me?" Hotch asked.

"Of course." Reid blinked; uncertain why the question needed to be asked.

"Right. Stay here, rest." Then Hotch was gone.

Reid, somewhat dazed still, listened as his boss fielded questions about the entire service. Urn? "Simple and elegant; she wasn't a fussy woman." Flowers? "Tulips. She hated heavy fragrances." Memorial? "She was a teacher, no doubt former students would come out to speak. Reid might be up to speaking as well; best leave a space for him to do so." Food? "Light sandwiches and tea would be best. Nothing fancy."

Before he knew it, Hotch had managed it all, and had come up beside him. "We need to get you back to the hotel. Can't have my resident expert in everything falling face first and concussing himself while on personal leave."

Reid understood Hotch's banter for what it was, namely, a way to keep him from being completely mortified at the amount of assistance he was getting from his boss. He forced a smile, despite Hotch's not so subtle insistence on standing within fingertip reach of him, just in case Spencer should keel over again.

As he sank back in to the leather seat, exhaustion seeming to seep from his very pores, he found himself stumbling to get his seat-belt buckled. Without comment, Hotch reached over and did it for him, and pulled away from the curb.

Reid found himself speaking. "How'd you know all that? About my Mom, I mean." He wondered.

Hotch's lips twitched. "Perhaps you weren't aware…but I'm a profiler too, Reid."

Spencer flushed slightly, but Hotch saw his embarrassment and went on, "Forget that, Reid. Truth is, this team is family. I know Morgan sends his mom yellow roses every mother's day. JJ's brother has a fondness for candied apples. YOU knew Jack prefers playing with his blocks or coloring to just about anything else. Garcia could probably pick out my meals for the next month and not make a wrong choice. The seven of us, we're so intertwined we nearly prop each other up. Hell, sometimes that's EXACTLY what we do."

"Right." Reid sank backwards more deeply in to the seat. "Everything okay with Jack?" He asked, glad Hotch had brought him up.

His boss's smile became more pronounced. "Yeah, it is. Thanks to you."

They made it back to the hotel, Reid forcing himself to stay awake, if only to ensure that Hotch didn't end up bodily carrying him back to his room. As they got in the elevator, Hotch took a quick glance at his phone. "Case solved. The rest of the team will be out here for the memorial tomorrow. Wheels up the day after…will you be able to leave with us?"

"Try and keep me off the plane." Reid responded. Or tried to…the words were broken up by an enormous yawn.

"Get some sleep." Hotch nudged him out the door as they got to their floor. "And Reid? Call me if you need anything. I _mean _that." He urged.

Reid managed a smile. "I know you do." And with that, he stumbled in to his room, and without any sort of preamble, fell down on to his bed.

As Reid felt sleep taking him, it was with the comfort of knowing that there was someone, for once, who he could completely count on. He'd have said he known all along that he could count on Hotch, in a work situation…this wasn't work. And knowing something, and truly believing it, on faith, were different things.

Some four hours later…so he could tell by the blinking numbers on his clock reading the time to be eight pm…Reid was awakened by a knock. Figuring Hotch had decided to weigh Reid's need for food against his need for sleep, he forced himself out of bed, rubbing at his face. There was another rap…funny, normally Hotch's knock was much more, well, COMMANDING. "Coming, Hotch…" He murmured, not at all sure his boss wouldn't resort to breaking the door down.

He flung open the door, and found himself staring at air.

Then he looked down…just in time to see Jack Hotchner throw himself in to a full blown hug of his legs.

What the…?

"Hey, kiddo." Reid said, stroking Jack's head gently. "How on earth did you get here?"

"In a PLANE, silly. You can't walk from Virginia to Nevada!" Jack giggled, a little, then looked carefully up to catch Reid's eye. "Daddy said I could come see you like you came to see me when my Mom died. I came with Aunt Jessie."

Reid swallowed hard, then got down on one knee to look the child in the eye. "That was very good of you, Jack. I am very glad that you're here."

"Me too." He hugged Spencer again, then grabbed at his hand. "C'mon…Daddy's ordering room service for us…and I have new pictures to show you. I don't have blocks, but maybe we could color!"

Just down the hall, Spencer could see Hotch leaning out the doorway, smirking as Reid found himself dragged along the corridor. "I guess the Reid effect is over?" Hotch deadpanned.

"Not at all. Your son just happens to be exceptional." Reid replied, allowing himself to be pulled in to the suite.

Ahead of him, Jessica was arranging food at the table; Jack dragged him to a desk and a stack of papers and crayons. Behind him, Hotch merely clapped Reid's shoulder. "You look better." He paused, and added in the same tone. "God knows you couldn't have looked worse."

"Ha, ha. Keep it up and one of these days I _will_ join a boy band."

"No chance. I've heard you sing."

Reid pulled a chair up to the desk next to Jack, and picked up a few crayons, "And singing has _what_ to do with being in a boy band?"

"Daddy, color with us." Jack insisted, handing Hotch a particularly lurid looking purple crayon.

Reid looked a challenge at his boss.

Hotch took the crayon, and raised an eyebrow at him. "You tell ANYBODY about this, Reid, and I'll reconsider firing you."

Jack snorted. "Daddy…you're not going to _fire_ Uncle Spencer." He said, sounding as if he thought the idea was absurd. "Now you're being silly."

"That's your Dad, Jack. First rate comedian." Reid replied.

For some reason Jack found that thought hilarious. Jessica also joined in, snickering at the table. And for as stern as he tried to look Reid rather thought Hotch might have found the thought a little funny himself.

X X X X

Two days later, Reid sighed to himself on the team's plane back towards Quantico.

He'd gotten through the memorial, speaking briefly to a room full of his mother's colleagues and former students. He'd related a simple story that he felt could sum up what he felt without completely losing it: he'd repeated to the group the message he'd once recorded when "for about the thousandth time, I'd put my life in jeopardy…" (that garnered a share of smirks from his assembled co-workers). It was the recording he'd had Garcia make when he'd contracted Anthrax. Simply put: he loved his mother, and was always proud to be her son.

Giving that little speech had been the hardest thing he'd ever done. And considering he'd killed men, that was saying something.

Somehow, he'd gotten through the afternoon. Sometimes, the tears seemed to want to overpower him, and that scared him: raw emotion was never something he'd dealt well with. Yet, every time that had happened, one of his team-mates seemed to be by his elbow. Morgan pulling him away asking questions about one of his mom's papers, that had been presented at the home. Rossi, extricating Reid from a particularly emotional flood from the dean of literature of UNLV to ask about local Italian restaurants. Garcia just always seeming to know when he needed a hug, and somehow her hug managed to make everything better.

Hotch, just being there. Being Hotch.

Now, most of the team was asleep, and Reid was alone with his thoughts. His thoughts, and a rather large album he'd assembled of photos from his mom's collection.

"Can I sit with you?" Jack asked, coming over to him shyly.

Reid smiled at the boy, and patted the leather seat next to him. Jessica was flying commercially, but somehow Jack had cajoled Hotch into letting him on the jet. Reid knew this was quite a treat for the kid; if Strauss ever found out about it there would be hell to pay. But who would tell?

Jack scooted in to the seat and right up next to Spencer. "Can I see the pictures with you?"

"Sure, Jack." Reid opened up to the first page. "That's my mom, and me…I was about three years old." His father had probably taken the photo; Reid was at a chess table, looking slightly confused, while his mother beamed beside him. He had just won his first match (he knew from the caption; it certainly wasn't something even he'd stored in his eidetic memory).

"She was pretty." Jack said, looking thoughtfully at the much younger Diana Reid, with long, blond hair and sparkling eyes. "She looked so happy."

"She was happy…that day." There were a lot of happy days when he was little. Fewer as his mother's condition got worse, and those days became rare once his father left.

Together he and Jack went through the book, Reid stopping to answer Jack's questions, telling Jack the happy stories from his childhood.

It wasn't until they got through two thirds of the book that something dawned on the boy as missing. "Where's your Dad, Uncle Spencer?"

Hoo, boy. Did he have an hour? "My parents got divorced when I was just a little older than you, Jack. I stayed with my Mom…and he kind of moved out of my life." Reid said, quietly. He ran a thoughtful finger over a photo of him with his Mom when he'd graduated high-school, age thirteen. A good day for his Mom, he'd gotten her cleaned up and out of the house; she looked both proud and terrified; he looked…God, look at him. He was far too old for a thirteen year old, even a precocious one. He could see a mile away the burden that child bore…the dark circles under his eyes and the wariness, the watchful look on his face, just waiting for his mother to have a panic attack.

If Spencer Reid, adult, saw Spencer Reid, child, on the streets today, he'd be on the phone to family services within seconds.

"My Dad said your mom had been sick for a long time." Jack mused, looking at another picture, a slightly older Reid with his Mom, the last Christmas they were in his childhood house. Right before he went to Cal Tech for his graduate degree. Reid had set the timer on the camera to that photo, as he suspected what their future held, even if he wasn't admitting to it. Jack had picked up on it being one of Mom's bad days; she stared in to the camera, fearful, unsure, nothing like the woman she had once been. Beside her, Spencer held her hands tight in one of his, the other arm draped over her in a hug. He looked protective and strong in that photo; he was more the parent than the child. "You took really good care of her."

"I tried to, Jack." He sighed deeply. "It isn't always easy to know the right thing to do…to know the right thing for her, or for me." Forgetting he was talking to a child, he forged on. "I can look back now and see things should have been different, in a lot of ways, there should have been more help, should have been more money, should have been more support. But at the same time I'm not sure if I would have done anything differently."

"She loved you. You loved her. That's all that matters." Jack said, reaching over to hug him.

Suddenly the tears that Reid had managed to hold inside for a very long time spilled over his cheeks. They were quiet tears; he would not sob. But he could no longer keep the dam up on the grief he held inside. He had loved his mother. She had loved him. And losing her hurt. He squeezed the boy tight to him, accepting the unconditional love of a child who understood how he was feeling too well.

There was a slight rustling sound, and suddenly across from him was Hotch. Reid managed to meet his eye, and he forced a shaky smile. Hotch nodded once and reached over and squeezed his shoulder. "You need to let this out, Reid. You've held it in for too long, and that isn't a good thing." A brief pause. "And I know how rich that must sound coming from me."

A laugh of acknowledgment escaped from him, then he gave in, broke down, and truly cried for the first time since he'd learned of his mother's death.

X X X X

The weeks went by. Reid went back to work as soon as he was able to, and blessings of all blessings, a case had come up. Nearly a month pursuing an unsub in Tulsa, Oklahoma, was a pretty effective way of not having to think too much about personal things. And the case was complex enough that it kept him engaged...no time for awkward memories to intersperse.

They arrived back at the office at 4pm on a Friday, just ten weeks to the day from when he'd stormed Hotch's office over Jack. He half smirked in memory of that; impossible, with everything that had happened since to even conceive of Hotch without Jack. And if Hotch ever tried to do something so amazingly stupid again, Reid'd kill him.

Around him, co-workers were dumping files and heading out...Morgan mentioned something about beer and Reid shooed him away; next Friday, maybe...but not this one. Beer with Morgan meant a late night, and that wasn't in the cards for him this evening. He'd scrounge up dinner, maybe put in a movie. Not more than that.

He barely noticed that again, he was the second to last person out. Although it seemed Hotch was not far behind him; his boss was locking his office while on the cell phone. Reid gave him a slight wave as he slung his bag over his shoulder to make for the door.

"Wait...hold on a second...Reid?" Hotch called to him. "Jack wants to know if you want to come over for dinner. It's pizza night."

"Um..." Reid hesitated; strange to feel awkward after all this. Really, wouldn't he be intruding?

Hotch had come up next to him, cell phone next to his ear. "Jack is insisting. He has several new drawings he wants to show you."

"I wasn't planning on a late night." He replied, lamely.

Hotch rolled his eyes. "Well, Jack and I weren't planning on hitting up any strip clubs after dinner...what's that, buddy?" Hotch blushed suddenly. "Um, a strip club is...um...kind of a place where people...never mind, Jack; hey, I'll pick up ice-cream for desert on the way home...with chocolate syrup!" He added in a rush.

Reid nearly doubled over laughing.

"And your Uncle Spencer will be there." Hotch said, half glaring at Reid through his embarrassment, as he hung up the phone. "Great, Reid...you better put your brain to coming up with some kind of definition of strip club or I'll never hear the end of it." He grumbled.

Then he noticed the photo.

A new one...or rather, one newly framed. It was the one Jack had liked so much, of his mother, young, beautiful, sane...and him, age three, staring in to the camera. Hotch smiled, and picked it up. "She was an amazing woman, Reid."

"I wish you'd known her better." Reid replied.

"I know enough." Hotch countered. "I know you are an amazing person, and that had to come from somewhere. Clearly not your father."

Reid shrugged. "He had his hand in making me what I am, for better or worse. As your father did you." He pointed out. "I've accepted that."

"Yeah, neither were father of the year material." Hotch understated. "You do know your father is an idiot and a fool, right?"

Reid grinned. "Not a complete fool. He ran like hell when you threatened to shoot him."

"And I'd have done it, too." Hotch raised an eyebrow. "Well, in the end, they both lost, our fathers. Yours will never know the man you are. Mine died unable to make me the same sadist he lived to be."

"So...if they lost...we won?" Reid asked. He chewed lightly on his lower lip in thought over that. There were days still where he doubted everything about himself except his brain; that was his father's legacy. He imagined there would still be days where Hotch would fear letting his father's violence come out in him; that was the Hotchner legacy.

"We're still fighting." Hotch corrected. "I don't know if you get to declare yourself a winner until the game is over."

Fighting. Yes, that he could do.

It made it easier to know he wasn't fighting alone.

Reid took the picture from Hotch and put it back down on the desk, and moved to follow him out. "Let's get caramel sauce, too!" He grinned up at his boss.

Hotch rolled his eyes. "You're a bigger kid than my son is!"

"Technically, not possible...the etymology of the word "kid" coming from the German..." Reid spouted off happily as Hotch pushed him towards the doorway, rolling his eyes in mock exasperation. Possibly Reid was intentionally being annoying. Possibly Hotch was not really annoyed. Possibly all of this was one more step to normalcy.

That is, for them.


End file.
